


Of Cowards and Kings

by ryssabeth



Series: Hail to the King [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fantasy, M/M, Prince!Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is more to him than he says there is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cowards and Kings

Grantaire stands atop one of the many bar tables, a painter’s smock buttoned only at the collar, the rest cascading behind him like a cape, his arms outside the sleeves and crossed over his chest instead. It is something to behold, really, the sarcastic cut of his jaw and the airy posturing of his cocked hip a perfect mockery of the king.

(Too good a mockery to be anything but personal observation, though the rest of the tavern is perfectly content to ignore that fact—either that, or they just don’t  _notice_.)

“ _Dar_ ling,” Grantaire sighs dramatically, canting his head slightly to the right—and Combeferre must admit that he sounds for all the world like a petulant king. “We  _can’t_  have sex tonight—we’ve already seen the maid in the kitchens and the dragon keeper and the stablehand—we just do  _not_  have the energy today.”

The tavern bursts into laughs. (And it is rather funny, it honestly is—especially the royal  _we_  he taunts with so well—and perhaps there wasn’t quite enough laughter before Grantaire had come to them with his offer of assistance.) Marius is doing his best not to seem amused—after all, he has his reasons to support the king, at least a little bit. Such petty taxation and extravagant spending have hardly affected him personally.

And—anyway—he’s doing a very poor job of keeping a straight face.

Grantaire then drops to the surface of the table, landing hard on his tailbone but seeming unaffected by the fall. He leans back on his hands, his smock spreading behind him like the cape the King wears, and he sighs again. “No, we haven’t the time to go out and  _meet the people_ , we’re counting their  _money_ —come back at a better time.”

This causes even Enjolras to crack a smile, his eyes almost lighting up in good humour at Grantaire’s complete mockery of the Crown and those behind it.

Combeferre repeats to himself that it  _is_  remarkable—but only because he can be no one else but the prince.

It is only when Courfeyrac puts a cup of ale in his hands that he slips from the table with a dramatic bow (practiced to be informal,  _practiced so that it does not scream Heir to the throne_ ). He slips back to the table closest to the bar, where he normally keeps himself, close to Marius to discuss displeasure and to laugh together—but today, Combeferre stops him, catching a fistful of the smock as he slips his arms through the sleeves, moving to button it up so it no longer hangs about him like royal wear.

Enjolras starts to speak again as Combeferre does, pulling Grantaire down. (And Grantaire lets him pull him, and for a moment Combeferre questions his theory, because no heir would allow himself to be handled in such a way.)

“Hello, Your Highness,” Combeferre says into his ear—and he knows he’s right then that he was correct as Grantaire’s muscles tense under his hand. “If you would follow me outside for a moment, please.”

Grantaire follows him, placing the cup on the table, and his face is suddenly drawn and pale, the joviality swallowed where the prince in him goes at night.

“What can I do for you, Combeferre?” He asks quietly, stopping just outside the swinging door, hands tucked in the sleeves of his painter’s smock. His head is cocked to the side but there is no smile there. “Are you going to tattle on me?”

“I only brought you out here to let you know that if your presence here threatens to harm Enjolras in anyway, I will not hesitate to kill you. Otherwise—“ Combeferre shrugs, “your secret is safe with me. Yes?”

Grantaire does smile then. “If I were to stay uninvolved, the current rebellious schoolboys would see me dead _anyway_. Might as well make my place among them.”

Combeferre blinks slowly. “Why  _did_  you offer to help?” (So far, much of his speculation and information has been invaluable—and accurate.) “Enjolras can be persuasive, certainly, but to convert  _you_  of all people…” He’s offering bait, offering a segue into a promise of loyalty. But Combeferre only gets a shrug in return.

“I don’t want to be King,” he says. “It’s hardly for the good of anyone but me. If the royal family is deposed and something else put in its place, well, then I am free to disappear into the wilderness.” It sounds entirely selfish—entirely like the sardonic Grantaire they know. And yet there’s something frozen in the half-smile, something inky and cryptic and  _secret_  held captive behind his teeth.

(But it doesn’t feel malicious. Combeferre thinks he would be able to tell if it did.)

“Speaking of assistance and coward princes—“ Grantaire reaches into the collar of the painter’s smock, apparently unwilling to unbutton it a second time, pulling a packet of documents out from beneath it, holding it out to Combeferre—and his half-smile is a full smile now, though it doesn’t touch the blue of his eyes. “—this is a copy of the collection of the royal accounts, to use in any treasonous material you’d like. Sealed by the prince himself—approved and signed by the man in charge of said accounts at the castle.”

Comeferre holds the paper in his hands, flipping through the packet. And there is, in fact, a seal and a signature. “And this is—a  _direct_  copy? No embellishments?” (Some of this spending—is  _ridiculous_. It’s inane and  _pointless_ —and then there is  _this_  small portion here, sent away to a convent, but it doesn’t appear to have the King’s approval, instead syphoned from these smaller accounts—)

“None. Accurate as can be.”

“This is—this is  _damning_. Glorious, even.” He flips the pages back into a stack and looks up at Grantaire, whose arms are now hung loosely at his sides. “But I promise you, if anything should happen to Enjolras or any of the others—“

“—you’ll kill me, I get it.” Another smile, bright but off-center. “And, if you’ll excuse me, I do have to get home. But—“ a flutter of eyelids, nervous blink, and, “—you won’t—tell Enjolras?”

( _“—but to convert_ you _of all people…”_ )

“Not if he’s safe. I’m pragmatic—and so far, it would behoove us to keep you.”

The sigh he releases is done through the nose, almost imperceptible, and this next bow is formal—a royal bow to someone of equal status. “We appreciate your consideration.” That voice is not Grantaire. It is not the mocking King either. It is the crown prince’s voice, the royal  _we_  dropped into existence, and that smile is one that is meant to placate the people when things go wrong and there is nothing anyone can do.

And then he is gone, shifting his body into a stream of pedestrians, walking down the main thoroughfare whilst speaking loudly, his smock hiding in a way that silks and furs never could.

Combeferre holds the documents close, slipping back into the tavern to report the good news—good news for them, not so much for the people, even less so for the royal family (still out in the country, greeting their subjects and expecting fealty in return).

Enjolras is enthused— _excited_ —alive.

He doesn’t ask where they came from.

Combeferre doesn’t feel the need to tell.


End file.
